Connor
met Shel Petry, his assistant, Henrietta Carter and the leading man
and woman, the ever popular power couple, Joshua Cohen and Amanda
Pennant.
They
arrived with an entourage of photographers and bodyguards.
Fortunately, the condo catered to high profile clients and the
riffraff were soon sorted out and disposed of. However, that still
meant two photographers and the assistants for Cohen and Pennant. In
other words, way more people than Connor felt up to dealing with.
Determined
to make a good impression, he led the group through the condo to the
beach outside. The beach front was beautiful. The waves crashed
nicely against the shore, the sand was white and clean looking, the
expanse of beach wider than some. Once Petry saw it, he realized that
Kent had the right idea. They were busily discussing the action of
the scene, experimenting with angles and taking all kinds of
publicity photos when Connor grabbed at his chest, gasping. They
vaguely registered a cracking sound as he fell.
He
stumbled into Petry and Carter, knocking Josh Cohen aside as he fell.
Henrietta took one look at the crimson stain spreading over his
pristine white chest and let out a piercing scream. A second cracking
sound and the sand at Joshua's feet exploded.
Chaos
ensued. Everyone on the beach ran in a different direction. Shel
Petry had enough wherewithal to call the police. Henrietta Carter
pressed her scarf against Connor's wound. The leading man, Cohen,
added his shirt, holding the exit wound on Connor's back.
Amanda
Pennant screamed hysterically until she realized no one was paying
any attention to her, so she fainted. It might have played better if
she hadn't rearranged her legs so they weren't sprawled open after
she fell.
Beach
Patrol arrived, followed by the ambulance. Two paramedics ran across
the sand and did whatever they could to stabilize Connor for
transport. They carried him to the ambulance and took him to the
hospital, a semi-hysterical Henrietta with him. She refused to leave
his side.
An
EMT administered smelling salts to Amanda. The police arrived a few
minutes later and started rounding up witnesses, but it was an
impossible task. The beach was full of vacationers and residents,
many of whom didn't wish to get involved. The only ones they got a
clear, coherent statement from were a couple from Sweden who were
standing nearby hoping to get an autograph from the actors.
Detective
Vanessa Weinstein came on the scene ten minutes after the shooting.
Aggressive and competitive, she was an up and comer. She knew how to
play the game and used her femininity to her advantage. Dressed in a
black power suit and a very white shirt, she stood out clearly on the
beach. Somehow, in some mysterious way that Walter Scott couldn't
explain, the woman didn't sweat. Her black hair was sleek, unmoving
in the wind off the ocean. Her skin was perfectly dry, not even a
bead of perspiration on her full lips.
"The
rest of Daytona's in hell in this late season heat wave and you stand
there looking like the Sugar Plum Fairy," Scott complained,
wiping his face with a handkerchief.
"Don't
drip in my crime scene," she said in a bored tone. "What's
going on upstairs?"
"Got
two perps, one actual shooter, one decoy. Second guy left his weapon.
Your guy left a shell casing. Looks like both had the same kind of
gun. No serial numbers on mine."
"Why
would they make it easy? You didn't find my gun, huh?"
"Nope.
But the shell's a 5.56mm, so we're figuring they both had identical
weapons. MSSR."
She
nodded, taking a sip of hot coffee from an insulated mug. Scott
slurped water from a rapidly warming bottle and wiped his brow on his
fist.
"Jeez,
can we at least get outta the sun? I'm gonna fry."
"You
should try getting a tan, Walt."
"I'm
Scottish and Scandinavian, Ness, I don't tan. You could put me out
here all day, I'd burn red as a beet."
"They're
purple." She moved into the shade of a cabana bar where they'd
set up their command center.
"Whatever."
"You
don't look like you'd burn. Got that brown hair and eyes."
"Dad's
a redheaded Highlander, I got his complexion. Tell me something I
need to know, Ness."
"We've
got a bullet."
"Buried
in the sand. I heard."
"And
the victim wasn't supposed to be here."
"What?"
"His
brother was the one with the appointment, not him. Ever heard of Kent
Griswald?"
"Who
hasn't? Man's either a genius or Satan himself—take your pick."
"The
vic is his younger brother, Connor. He took the meeting for Kent—who
had something else to do."
"You're
thinking his brother set him up?"
"Wouldn't
be the first time. Younger brother, hungry for power, steps on the
wrong toes?"
Scott
nodded, thinking. The bartender handed him a glass of ice for his
water. Scott thanked him with a silent nod.
"Doesn't
feel right," he said.
Vanessa
Weinstein shrugged. "Working theory."
"Meaning
you do like and it's what you're going after. Bad way to work, Ness."
"You
aren't the only one who can be right about something, Walter."
She turned from him, heading out to the beach.
Walter
Scott caught her hand. Tugging on her, he brought her back. "Look,
you're a hell of a cop, Nessa. All I'm saying is don't limit your
options. I've seen you do this. You get so focused on one thing, you
miss details. This is a big deal, Nessa. Careers are made or broken
over cases like this."
She
got very quiet, moving closer. "This could buck me to Sergeant."
"Or
bury you. I know you want to advance. Hey, I'd love a promotion. But
take it slow, look at details. Don't miss something that's right in
front of you because it doesn't fit your puzzle."
©
2016 Dellani Oakes
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